


Champagne Glasses and Bullet Casings

by wizardoface



Series: AUniverse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Badass, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, I tried at least, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Original Character(s), Red Room (Marvel), Sort Of, Weird Plot Shit, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, basically i just throw things at natasha and see how she reacts, but thats cause i am not badass, enemies to friends takes like two seconds, if not its still pretty epic, its fun, like at all, oh and if you like Dorothy its set to their music, to me it is, well enemies to acquaintances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29842125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizardoface/pseuds/wizardoface
Summary: Growing up, Natalia Alianovna Romanoff had shown quite an aptitude for ballet. Her parents, being the doting and caring people that they were, had of course obliged her talent, acquiring her lessons with one of the best ballet teachers they could offer.She took to it like a duck to water.~Everyone thinks they know the story of the Black Widow, but how much have they really been told?
Series: AUniverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156946
Kudos: 4





	Champagne Glasses and Bullet Casings

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, here I am. Posting this way too early cause I have to rewrite basically the whole thing and I only have limited time to do so, but idc. I love this too much to leave it hanging around. Might decide to edit and repost, but if I do I'll add a note somewhere. For now, chapter one has landed.
> 
> So, this is set to After Midnight by Dorothy. Listen to it, and get a feel for how I see these characters.

It was a quaint, unsuspecting building, sitting in a street of other quaint, unsuspecting buildings. 

Double storey, lush green lawn, and stand-alone mail-box, it stopped just short of a white picket fence. White smoke puffed out of the single chimney, merrily signalling at the warmth and happiness oft found by a cosy fireplace. 

With its cream bricked exterior, large bay window and wrap-around veranda, the house gave off an air of being loved. It was more than simply a building; it was a _home_. 

Or at least, it had been (But let’s not get ahead of ourselves). 

Inside, the downstairs was open plan, entranceway opening up to the front living room, with the kitchen beyond. 

Worn, brown leather couches clustered around an ornate wooden, glass-topped coffee table, a flat-screen television hung on the wall. Though, you got the sense that more often than not, the occupants huddled around the table in favour of a board game than sat watching the tv. 

The kitchen shone with the newest appliances, always up-to-date on the latest releases. A sparkling marble benchtop island took up most of the space, with matching sleek, black barstools tucked under it orderly. 

Off to the other side of the entranceway were the bedrooms; two of them. One with a front-view of the street, the other perfectly placed to allow night-time escapades out and over the vines climbing the fence. The doorway within each of the rooms led into the shared bathroom. 

Between the two doors trailed the staircase, winding its’ way up to the top floor. 

Here, the pristine mirage of downstairs broke. 

It was an open-plan bedroom – having been converted a few years back, the inner walls mostly knocked down and the floor carpeted. Disappearing through an archway to the left, was the ensuite bathroom, the floor tiled with sleek black. 

Littering the ground of the bedroom were glass shards, sitting underneath the torn and battered wallpaper of the wall on which they were smashed upon. Articles of clothing were strewn across the room, trailing over the sofa which sat under the window directly across from the stairs. 

An empty bottle of wine sat on the small raised, wooden platform by the door, next to the winding wine rack. 

The queen-sized bed stood in the middle of the back wall, its sheets rumpled, and cushions tossed carelessly across it. 

In front of the open wardrobe, ensconced in a red silk robe, tied around her waist and fluttering over her thighs, stood a woman. Her hair shone red, woven up in a messy bun, and in her hand was a wine glass. 

A selection of high heels and stilettos arrayed on the ground behind her, awaiting her choice of outfit. 

There was a quiet trill of music floating on the air, a swell of violins and cellos, as the woman leisurely perused the selection of clothing. Her fingers fluttered over the fabric, coming to a stop against a shimmering pale blue silk gown. Pulling aside the hangers, she surveyed the dress thoughtfully. 

Red tinted lips curled up at the edges. 

_Perfect._

* * *

Growing up, Natalia Alianovna Romanoff had shown quite an aptitude for ballet. Her parents, being the doting and caring people that they were, had of course obliged her talent, acquiring her lessons with one of the best ballet teachers they could offer. 

She took to it like a duck to water. 

Something about Natalia was always so agile and quick – not just in body, but also her mind – that she had had no trouble adapting to, and disciplining her body to adapt to, the exact measurements and movements required. 

So little trouble did she have, in fact, that by age nine, she had performed her first major on-stage performance, complete with full symphony orchestra backing, and high-profile attendees. 

Let's rewind a few years first; Natalia, at the age of seven, was one of the studio’s brightest up and coming ballerinas. Her parents were very proud of her, and this spurred her on to become the best dancer in all of France. Every morning from 6:30, Natalia could be found in the studio, dancing and stretching and composing for all she was worth. So intense was her devotion to the sport, that Natalia’s practices were often attended by international scouts, looking for fresh blood. 

It was at one such practice that Natalia met Monsieur Alarie. 

Skirts twirled, colours flashed; the mirrors lining the walls reflected perfectly the dancers spinning around the room. Seven girls stretched by the bar while, the rest of the class practised in front of the mirror. The instructor, a lady by the name of [blank], paced through the centre of the room, observing the girls go through their exercises. The room was filled with softly playing Chopin; a lilting melody carried on a breeze. 

Monsieur Alarie was the managing director for the French ballet, and had been called to the studio by word of Natalia's prowess. That morning, the studio was abuzz with excitement – all the dancers had arrived in a flurry of skirts, shoes, and blank, ready to put their best foot forward in the hopes of attracting attention. Snide glances, and subtle jabs were shared, and former friends became enemies, fighting for that one chance to make their break. 

Natalia was unconcerned by all of this. In her mind, it was just another day practicing the sport she loved. 

Which was precisely why Monsieur Alarie had made the journey all the way out to see her dance. 

He made his way through the room of dancers slowly – each curtseying upon his glance and averting their eyes, showing off their grace and virtue for his perusal. But Monsieur Alarie only had eyes for the girl by the mirror, elegantly twirling in a swish of red hair. 

Natalia shone; Her grace and poise far eclipsing that of the others. She danced, not caring for the audience watching her, existing within a world of her own creation; simply her and the music. 

The piece came to an end and Natalia stilled. Monsieur Alarie began to applaud, the other dancers in the room joining in reluctantly. The instructor looked on with greedy eyes and a smug smile. 

Natalia turned from the mirror (and stood in rest?). 

“ _Well done, my dear_.” Monsieur Alarie congratulated, taking a few measured steps forward to meet her at arm’s distance. “ _You have quite a talent_.” 

Natalia bowed her head into a curtsey. “Thank you, Monsieur.” 

He studied her with a hand stroking his trimmed beard. He clicked his fingers. “ _How would you like to come to my studio in Paris? A dancer of your talent...you will be performing at the ___ in no time, I am sure.”_

A gasp went up around the room, one of the older dancers stomping their feet in anger and storming to the door. The instructor and various faculty members dotted about the room took on eager demeanours. 

Natalia simply smiled blandly. “I thank you, Monsieur, but I am perfectly happy where I am.” 

A second gasp, much more shocked than the first, and the instructors' smiles dropped, an uneasy murmur rumbling amongst them. Monsieur Alarie’s face went carefully blank. “ _No?_ He asked. “ _May I enquire as to_ why _you are turning down such a gracious proposition? Do you not understand the gravity of my offer?”_

Natalia shrugged delicately. “I have no urge for fame, nor fortune; it is dance which I love. Why should I move on, when I have all that I need where I already am?” 

And so ended Natalia’s encounter with Monsieur Alarie. Memorable, it was not, but life-altering, it most certainly was. Monsieur Alarie left that day with a grudging respect for the tiny dancer, hidden underneath his outward rage. For how could he resent one whom felt so strongly over the sport which was so dear to his own heart? 

No, great things were to come from Natalia Alianovna Romanoff.

Great things indeed. 

**Author's Note:**

> *cue evil laughter*
> 
> Kay, see you in two months (just preparing you in case it does take two months).


End file.
